


Moving Boxes

by nxghtwxng



Series: Navigating Life [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxghtwxng/pseuds/nxghtwxng
Summary: “Move in with me.”Jon whips around so fast he smacks his head against the top of the cupboard, leaving a dent in the wood.“What?”Damian blinks, brow wrinkling like he’s surprised himself with his own words. “I... want us to move in together.”Or: Five times Jon and Damian kinda sorta started moving in together, and one time they actually did.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Series: Navigating Life [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845865
Comments: 26
Kudos: 302





	Moving Boxes

1.

It’s nearing three in the morning, and Damian is curled in his desk chair with an extensive collection of borrowed GCPD files spread in front of him. 

The past couple months have brought about a steep incline in disappearances in Gotham, and Damian is certain that the cases are related. Between pounding the pavement during that night’s patrol and pouring over GCPD’s shoddy case files, he’s managed to connect almost two thirds of Gotham’s most recent disappearances to the Inzerillo crime family. Damian refuses to turn in for the night until he’s found the connection between the Inzerillos and the remaining missing persons.

The papers strewn over Damian’s desk rustle as a gust of wind blows through a cracked window. Damian shivers, clad in only joggers and a thin t-shirt, and his hair still damp from his post-patrol shower. He considers padding across the room to close the open window, but he’s reluctant to tear himself away from his work for even a moment – he can _feel_ how close is to cracking this case.

So instead, he simply reaches around to grab at the sweatshirt hanging off the back of his desk chair.

The sweatshirt – a grey pullover hoodie with the words _Metropolis University_ emblazoned across the chest – belongs to Jon, who had been in Gotham earlier that day helping Damian with another case (Intergang weapons shipment expected to arrive that weekend. Robin and Superboy now had plans to intercept and destroy the merchandise.) and stealing kisses anytime Damian pursed his lips in concentration. He had flown home in his Superboy uniform, forgetting the Met U sweatshirt at Damian’s apartment.

Damian had fully intended to leave Jon’s stupid sweatshirt where it sat until Jon returned to Gotham to retrieve it – 

But now he’s cold.

Damian is cold, and Jon’s sweatshirt is still draped over the back of the very same chair that he’s sitting on. So Damian grabs the sweatshirt and pulls it over his head – _solely_ because it’s more convenient than disrupting his investigation to cross his room and close the window.

(Although, Damian may or may not also like that the sweatshirt smells like Jon.)

2.

Jon groans as he floats through the fire escape and into Damian’s apartment, crossing the room and tumbling head first onto the couch. He buries his face in a throw pillow and pulls his Superboy cape snug around him, like a makeshift blanket, as Damian pulls himself through the fire escape.

“I hate Gotham,” Jon mumbles, voice muffled slightly by the pillow. “Your Rogues are terrible.”

Eyes still closed, Jon listens as Damian pads across the room. His footsteps are light enough that Jon can barely hear them without tapping into his super-hearing, never mind that Damian is walking across a hardwood floor in heavy-grade combat boots. The couch dips as Damian sits down. A moment later, a gauntlet-covered hand cards through Jon’s hair.

“That was awful,” Jon says quietly.

Damian’s hand stills, resting on the nape of Jon’s neck. “I know,” he murmurs.

Superboy had just witnessed his first mass Fear Toxin attack. He hadn’t breathed in the toxin himself, thanks to Damian’s quick reflexes and a spare rebreather he had stowed in his utility belt, but watching hundreds of civilians run from their own worst fears as Fear Toxin flooded downtown Gotham had been heartwrenching. He had had to prevent at least a dozen suicides – desperate attempts of Gothamites hoping to end the living nightmares that Scarecrow’s Fear Toxin had given rise to. It had been draining work, and Jon is exhausted.

Jon rolls over to scrub a hand over his face. “What time is it?” he asks.

Damian looks over his shoulder at the clock hanging on the back wall. “About twelve-thirty.”

Scarecrow had attacked a little before eight. It takes time to subdue the certain brand of chaos he creates.

“I should start flying home soon,” Jon laments. All he really wants to do is take a hot shower and crawl into a warm bed. 

Damian’s hand returns to his hair, this time pushing his bangs out of his eyes. His armor is coarse against Jon’s forehead, but Jon nonetheless leans into the touch.

“You can stay here tonight,” Damian offers.

Jon nearly sighs in relief. “Thank Rao,” he mumbles, then blinks up at Damian. “Shower?”

Damian nods, and he and Jon peel themselves up from the couch and amble towards Damian’s bathroom. Damian strips out of his Robin armor and cranks the shower tap as hot as it will go, then reaches for his toothbrush as he waits for the water to warm. 

Jon unfastens his cape, frowning as he pulls his Superboy sweatshirt over his head. He needs a toothbrush.

Damian catches his frown through the bathroom mirror, which is already beginning to fog with the heat of the shower, and wordlessly opens his medicine cabinet. He grabs a spare toothbrush from the shelf – because _of course_ Damian keeps spare toothbrushes, over-prepared as he always is – and hands it over to Jon.

“Thanks,” Jon says as he tears the packaging open.

Damian leans down to spit toothpaste into the sink, then looks up at Jon. “You should keep that here. The toothbrush,” he suggests. He turns on the tap to rinse the toothpaste from the sink. “You spend the night here most weeks. There’s no sense in you toting a toothbrush back and forth.”

Jon smiles for the first time since Scarecrow’s attack that night. “Really?” he grins. When Damian raises a brow at his excitement, he adds, “You know that’s kind of a big deal for couples, right? When they start to leave stuff at each other’s places?” 

“It is merely for convenience’s sake,” Damian insists, peeling his undershirt off and heading for the shower. 

Jon stops him in his track, wrapping his arms around Damian’s waist and tugging his back against his chest. “It means we’re in a _committed relationship,”_ Jon singsongs, pressing a kiss to Damian’s cheek. 

“I certainly hope we are, we’ve been dating for nearly six months,” Damian huffs, twisting out of Jon’s grasp and once again heading for the shower. 

Jon shamelessly watches as Damian discards his briefs and steps under the showerhead, sighing as the hot water beats down against his back and shoulders, then tipping his head back to wet his hair. 

Jon places his new toothbrush next to the sink, scrambles out of his jeans, and goes to join Damian in the shower.

3.

“I am going to buy your entire apartment complex so that I can personally see to it that a proper heating unit is installed,” Damian chatters, pulling Jon’s duvet tighter around his shoulders. He’s staying with Jon for the weekend, and he had packed boxers and t-shirts to sleep in, despite the fact that Jon’s apartment is notoriously drafty. “It’s a goddamn ice box in here.”

Jon rolls his eyes from where he’s seated at his desk, furiously typing out the final few paragraphs of an essay that’s due in less than an hour. He hadn’t meant to procrastinate, but Metropolis had been overrun with literal killer robots earlier that week, and Superboy tended to prioritize lethal, sentient machinery intent on eradicating humankind over his Developmental Psychology class.

“D, you’re here all the time. You should know how cruddy this apartment is,” Jon says absently as he types out a third-rate explanation of emigration and cultural development.

“It was nearly ninety degrees today. I didn’t expect the temperature to drop so much,” Damian argues.

“You couldn’t have just checked the weather app on your phone?” Even without looking away from his laptop, Jon knows that Damian is glaring at him.

For a moment, the only noise between them is the rapid clacking of Jon’s keyboard as he dips into his super-speed to ensure he finishes his paper on time. He has twenty minutes and two, maybe three, paragraphs left.

Then, “I’m buying this apartment complex.”

“Nope. You’re not,” Jon replies breezily. 

“I _am,”_ Damian grouses. “Then I won’t have to _freeze half to death_ whenever I’m here.”

“You’re not dying.”

“How would you know? _I_ am the only one in this room who has died before. I think I would know if and when I am once again nearing death –”

“Oh my God,” Jon groans, floating out of his desk chair and over to his dresser. He rifles through the top drawer for a pair of pajama bottoms and that Met U sweatshirt that Damian is so fond of. He tosses both at Damian. “Here.”

Damian sniffs, but yanks the sweatshirt over his head.

“I know you grew up in the desert, but you’ve lived on the East Coast for over ten years now. How are you still not used to the cold?” Jon says as he settles back in front of his laptop.

“I’m _used to it,_ I just don’t _like it,”_ Damian retorts. He plucks the pajama pants that Jon had thrown his way up by the waistband. “You’re too tall,” he complains. “These are going to be too long on me.”

“Better than freezing to death,” Jon offers. 

“Barely.”

“You could just start leaving a pair of sweats here.” Jon pauses, fingers slowing to a stop and hovering above the computer keys. He worries at his lower lip, twisting in his chair to face Damian. “I could maybe... clear a drawer for you? You could keep some spare clothes or whatever else. Maybe even a uniform and a few dominos? Here. In the drawer. If you’d like.” He swallows, quieting any further stammering, and smiles hesitantly at Damian.

A smile tugs at Damian’s lips. “That would be acceptable."

Jon turns back around to his laptop, grinning.

4.

When Jon opens the front door to his apartment, he finds Damian, arms laden with a cardboard box large enough to hold a small child. Or a litter of puppies. Jon wouldn’t be surprised if it was a litter of puppies.

“Uh, what’s in the box?” Jon asks as Damian side-steps his way into the apartment. Jon closes the front door, and Damian drops the box to ground with a resounding _thud._ Not a litter of puppies, then.

“Batarangs, pocket explosives, plastiques, smoke pellets, spare grapplers, spare tasers –” Damian lists.

“Right…” Jon says slowly. “And why exactly are you bringing a box of weapons into my apartment?”

Damian rolls his eyes, the same way he would when he was thirteen and ten-year-old Jon was acting too much like a ten-year-old for his liking.

“I’ve been patrolling Metropolis almost as often as I do Gotham, lately," he explains. "And although I have no doubt that I could survive in the field without weapons if the need arose, I do prefer to patrol with a fully stocked utility belt. Preparedness is a prerequisite for victory, after all.”

“So…” Jon says slowly. “This is so you can stay here for a few days without having to go home to restock your utility belt?” 

Damian nods. “Precisely.”

A crooked grin starts to stretch across Jon’s face. “That’s a pretty big box,” he notes. “You planning on sticking around for a while?”

5.

Damian is far from the hopeless romantic that Jon is, but even he can handle taking his boyfriend out to dinner for their one year anniversary. He and Jon had both agreed to take a break from the capes for the night, and Damian had used his Wayne fortune to get them a reservation at one of the nicest restaurants in Metropolis. 

He had even gotten Jon _flowers._ He, Damian Al Ghul Wayne, had gone to a _florist shop._ Never let it be said that Damian isn’t a good boyfriend.

Damian wraps his knuckles against Jon’s door, fully prepared to greet Jon with a _“Happy anniversary, habibi,”_ and hand over the stupid flowers.

The door opens, and Damian barely has time to take a breath before Jon, disheveled and shirtless with shaving cream smeared across half his face, is rambling at him.

“I promise I’ll be ready in like five minutes,” he starts, floating mid-air as he laces up his Converse. Damian steps inside and closes the front door. Jon isn’t _abysmal_ at managing his secret identity, but he has a bad habit of casually using his powers while forgetting about things like open doors or windows and nosy neighbors.

“I was supposed to be home by five, which would have given me plenty of time to get ready, but there was a fire over on East and Broad. First responders weren’t there yet, and there were still people inside the building, so I flew over to help. And everyone ended up fine, but I didn't get home until closer to six, and I was covered in ash and smelled all smokey, so I had to shower. And _then_ I couldn’t find the shirt I wanted to wear – that navy button-up with the stripes? And I spent so long looking for it, that I haven’t had time to shave, and – Are those flowers?”

Damian blinks. “Um, yes. For you,” he says lamely. He hands the flowers over to Jon, who is still hovering a good three or four inches from the ground, making him a good six or seven inches taller than Damian. Their height difference used to irk Damian to no end when they were younger. Damian still huffs about it from time to time, but – and he would never admit this aloud – he doesn’t _hate_ that he has to press up onto his toes to kiss Jon.

Jon beams as he takes the flowers, shaving cream crinkling around his smile lines.

“And the button-up you were looking for,” Damian adds, “is at my apartment.”

“It is?” Jon asks, feet finally touching down on solid ground.

Damian nods. He’s certain he knows which button-up Jon had been looking for. Because Jon looks _good_ in that button-up, and the last time that he had worn it, Damian had wasted little time tearing it off of him. 

“Well, that explains why I couldn’t find it,” Jon says. He turns on his heel and hustles back towards his bathroom. “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” he calls over his shoulder. “I _can_ be ready in three if we’re running late, but the last time I used my super-speed to shave, I had the _worst_ razor burn –”

“Five minutes is fine,” Damian assures. He follows Jon back to his too-small bathroom, leaning against the doorframe and watching as Jon turns the faucet tap to rinse his razor. “Our reservation is under the name _Wayne._ We could be an hour late, and the restaurant would still have our table waiting.”

Jon snorts. “Rich kid,” he teases.

“Farm boy,” Damian returns.

“Know-it-all.”

“Simpleton.”

“Jerk.”

“Idiot.”

Jon grins, catching Damian’s eye in the bathroom mirror. “I love you.”

Damian allows himself a small smile. “I love you too.”

+1.

“Dames,” Jon hums, settling on the edge of Damian’s bed. “Time to wake up.”

Damian murmurs something incoherent and burrows deeper into the blankets.

“Come on, babe,” Jon tries, nudging Damian’s upper arm. Damian grumbles and shoulders Jon’s hand away, so Jon changes tactics, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Damian’s temple, then cheek, then jaw.

Damian hums, but makes no move to get up.

“I made pancakes,” Jon offers. 

At that, Damian cracks an eye open. “What kind?”

“Chocolate chip.”

Damian stretches his arms above his head, kicks the blankets away, and rolls out of bed. “You should have led with that.”

Between the two of them, Jon has always been the early riser, rising with the same sun that he derives his powers from. Even back when he and Damian were kids – when spending the night had meant sleeping bags and videogames – he would be the first to wake, and would poke and prod Damian until he woke up too.

And he still does that from time to time – jab a finger against Damian’s cheek and singsong _Wake up, sleepyhead_ – but on mornings like these, weekend mornings where he and Damian have nowhere to be and no one to see except each other, he prefers to go with gentle kisses and chocolate chip pancakes.

“Meet you in the kitchen,” Jon says, planting one last kiss against Damian’s cheek. 

He speeds off to divide up the heeps of pancakes he’d made, and puts some coffee on to brew while he’s at it. He’s rifling through Damian’s kitchen cupboards when Damian ambles into the kitchen wearing that Met U sweatshirt that’s more his than it is Jon’s these days.

“Hey, do you have any syrup?” Jon asks. “Or, wait, would that be too sweet? Chocolate chips and syrup?” He gets no reply. “D?”

“Move in with me.” 

Jon whips around so fast he smacks his head against the top of the cupboard, leaving a dent in the wood. _“What?”_

Damian blinks, brow wrinkling like he’s surprised himself with his own words. “I... want us to move in together.” He says it slowly. Like it’s a revelation. Like he hadn’t realized it was something he wanted until he’d said it aloud.

“You want to move in together?” Jon echoes.

Damian crosses his arms over his chest. “Is it such a radical idea?” he asks. “You’re here more often than you’re at your own apartment.”

Jon leans back against the counter, considering. It’s not as if he’s never thought about it himself, on those mornings where he wakes up to Damian’s soft breathing, his arms wrapped loosely around Damian’s waist, and he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to wake up to that warm comfort every morning. But moving in together had seemed such a serious decision — a promise to each other that they were committed, that they wanted to build a life together. And while Jon _is_ committed and has no doubts that Damian is too, he isn't sure _how_ to build that life, or even _where_ to build it.

Jon has a life in Metropolis. Damian has a life in Gotham.

And _Rao_ Jon hates Gotham.

“Just forget it,” Damian mutters, and Jon realizes Damian is taking his lack of response as a no. "Let's just eat breakfast."

“No, Dames, don’t do that,” Jon says. He crosses the kitchen, stopping short in front of Damian and tugging him close. Damian ducks his head, but Jon reaches a hand under his chin and tilts his head up.  “I’m not against the idea,” Jon assures. “I do want to move in together.”

"But?" Damian prompts, raising a single brow.

Jon closes his eyes, sighing. "But I don't want to move _here,"_ he admits quietly. "I love you, Damian. I _want_ to live with you. I want to spend every second I can with you, but Gotham... I hate Gotham."

"Then we don't have to live in Gotham."

Jon's eyes fly open. "What?" he asks, dumbfounded. "You would leave Gotham?"

Damian shrugs. "Gotham is more so my father's city than it will ever be mine. I protect Gotham not because of my love for the city, but because it's the right thing to do. But I'm not a born and bred Gothamite like my father or brothers." The corners of Damian's mouth curl into a smile, and his hands slip over Jon's shoulders. "Nor do I harbor their same arduous hatred for Metropolis."

"Are you saying," Jon says slowly, "that you would move to Metropolis?" 

“I would move to Metropolis,” Damian confirms.

Jon blinks. Then blinks again. He feels like someone has slipped him the answer key to a test he had been dreading having to take. It feels too easy, Damian agreeing to move to Metropolis before Jon had even asked. 

"Stop overthinking," Damian says. He runs a finger over the crease in Jon's brow, touch smoothing out the wrinkles. "Do you want to move in together or not?"

"Uh... Yes?"

"Then we'll move in together," Damian says with a curt nod. Pragmatic as always, Jon thinks absently. "But while I will move to Metropolis, I will _not_ be moving into that hovel you live in. We're finding a better apartment — one with _heat_ and a bedroom with enough space to fit _at least_ a queen sized bed. And I refuse to —"

"Damian," Jon interjects. "Shut up." And with that, he pulls Damian into a kiss that probably would have been a little more enjoyable if Jon could stop smiling long enough to kiss properly.

Less than a month later, Jon and Damian are sitting on the floor of their new apartment, backs pressed against their living room wall, surrounded by moving boxes waiting to be unpacked. Jon tips his head back to look up at the ceiling. The ceiling fan – _their_ ceiling fan – is already spinning in lazy circles. 

“We live here,” Jon murmurs. A laugh bubbles up in the back of his throat as he turns to look at Damian. “We _live together_ now.”

“I’m aware,” Damian drawls, though Jon can hear the smile in his voice.

Their apartment is quaint – strides ahead of the dirt-cheap apartment that Jon is used to, but nowhere near the penthouse that Damian’s share of the Wayne fortune could have bought them. 

Two bedrooms and two bathrooms – one for them, one for guests. A spacious living room and a kitchen with a breakfast nook that Jon had gotten far too excited over. There’s a balcony, too, and a secluded fire escape perfect for sneaking in and out while they’re wearing their capes.

“We live together,” Jon repeats, one last time for good measure.

“We do,” Damian replies, lips curling into a smile. 

And Jon is smiling too.

**Author's Note:**

> [Chat with me on Tumblr.](https://nightwingbb.tumblr.com/)


End file.
